


Small Change

by Stormheller



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:37:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormheller/pseuds/Stormheller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But when Fraser said, “Do me, Ray.” Ray was very nearly undone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Change

**Author's Note:**

> 2004 Due South Seekrit Santa challenge. Beta'd by Etui, proofed by Rentgirl2
> 
> IF YOU LIKED THIS STORY... please check out my pro writing.   
> My gay stories here: http://www.stormgrant.com/  
> My urban fantasy here: http://ginaxgrant.wordpress.com/the-relucant-reaper-series/  
> Thank you,  
> ~ Gina / Stormy / Stormheller

“How are you feeling now, Ray?” Fraser spoke so softly he could barely be heard over the thrum of the diner’s arthritic air conditioner.

“What?” Gradually the words settled on Ray’s eardrums. “Oh. I’m okay now. You don’t have to whisper anymore. I’ll live. That tit-willow whatever stuff is helping.” Ray sipped his coffee, grateful for caffeine and tit-willow whatever. As well as the extra strength Tylenol he’d been swallowing all day.

“Tincture of willow bark, Ray. And I’m glad it did the trick.” Except Fraser didn’t look glad. He looked pissy and down and had since he and Ray had met for their usual Saturday night dinner.

“Right. Tinted Wilby whatever.” Ray rubbed his temples, feeling almost human again. “How come you aren’t hurting today, Frase? Took me most of the day just to crawl outta bed and shower.”

“As you well know, I don’t drink.” Now Fraser looked pissy, down _and_ judgemental. Greatness, Ray thought.

“Where’d you wander off to last night, anyway? By the time I was ready to head out, somebody said you’d split. Did you hook up or something?”

Despite the jeans and light cotton shirt he was wearing, when Fraser straightened up in his seat, Ray could clearly see the ghost of his uniform settle over him. “I did not, as you say, ‘hook up’. I was merely tired and decided to leave.”

“Without telling me? That’s not buddies.”

“You seemed rather busy, Ray. You were dancing. And fairly closely, I might add.” Fraser’s attention was on the traffic rushing past the diner.

Ray fidgeted in his seat. “I was? Who with?”

“With _whom.”_

“S’what I said. Whom with?” Ray’s headache was almost completely gone now. He felt a little brittle and a little light-headed. God, he loved caffeine.

“I’m not sure, Ray, but as I was leaving, I noticed you dancing with an attractive blonde woman.”

“Blonde, huh.” Ray was preoccupied with trying to catch their waitress’s attention. She, on the other hand, was busy flirting with a table of people who were, in Ray’s opinion, far too old to carry off the whole Goth thing. Turning his attention back to Fraser, he said, “Gotta be more specific there, Frase. I danced with a lot of blondes last night. Let’s see. Diane was blonde. CJ, the one with all the piercings, she had more sort of orange hair.” He formed a fist with his left hand, never letting go of his coffee cup with his right. For each dance partner named and described, he straightened one finger. “Sandy was, well, sandy. And Tomika had pink and blue streaks. Or at least that’s how it looked in the crappy lighting. Um, Indira had—”

Fraser reached across the table and grasped Ray’s now-open hand, clenching Ray’s fingers together tightly. He stopped just shy of causing actual discomfort. “You’ve made your point, Ray. You’re popular. You like blond hair. You like people who are interesting. And different.” He let go of Ray’s hand. His lips were tightly pursed, their usual wholesome colour bleeding away.

“Sure I do. I like to dance, Frase. So sue me.” Ray was becoming defensive. A small part of his recovering brain wondered just what about this conversation reminded him of his marriage. “You knew I liked to dance before you came out with me last night. Who was I going to dance with if not them? You?” Ray let that hang in the air for a good twenty seconds, pleased at Fraser’s taken-aback expression. “You didn’t have to leave. You could have hung with Huey or Dewey or Frannie. Or met someone new. There’s never any lack of people who’d jump at the chance to hang with you.”

“At least I,” Fraser said, “I got a good night’s sleep and woke up without any unpleasant after-effects. You wasted an entire day.”

“It was my Saturday to waste if I wanted. Sometimes the going up is worth the coming down.” There was no way Fraser would know what Ray was talking about, having had a drug-free youth, unless the kids of the Northwest Areas got high mainlining whale blubber or snorting lichen.

“I prefer my own company to that of drunks, Ray.” Fraser wore that superior look that made Ray long to punch him right in the moral high ground.

“You put the ‘mental’ in ‘judgemental’, Fraser. You know that?” Ray was simmering at this juncture. “I like to dance and I like to drink, too, in spite of the after-effects. Wouldn’t hurt for you to have a beer or two once in a while.”

Fraser raised one finger and opened his mouth, looking like a prissy Canadian schoolmarm and pushing all of Ray’s adolescent-holdover buttons at once. Before he could speak, Ray cut in. “You know, Fraser. You need to lighten up a bit. People might like you better.”

Fraser’s mouth snapped shut with an enamel-chipping clunk, biting off whatever words he’d been going to say. Instead, he looked wounded. “I wasn’t aware people didn’t like me.” His lips pressed together so tightly tiny vertical crevices formed all around his mouth. Ray backed off big-time.

“Ah, Frase. Don’t listen to me. I’m an asshole. I don’t know nothing.”

“I don’t know _anything,_ Ray.”

“Course you do. Course you do.” For a moment Ray lost his train of thought. He replayed their conversation in his head, wondering what they were fighting about. And why. Getting himself up to speed again, he soldiered on, “No, wait. No, really. I do know this, Fraser. People like you. Everybody likes you. _I_ like you.” Ray looked away, not meeting Fraser’s eyes. “It’s just that…”

“It’s just what, Ray?”

“It’s just that… you make people nervous. Maybe you should relax a little. Have a couple beers sometime.”

If somebody had said something like this to Ray, he’d have lost it. He might have said something really nasty, stormed out or even smashed something. But it wasn’t Ray. It was Fraser.

Instead of an angry response, Fraser grew quiet, apparently giving solid consideration to Ray’s words. After a minute or two, he said, “This may come as something of a surprise to you, Ray, but there are times when I don’t seem to… I can’t quite… Oh, dear.” Fraser picked up his coffee again, staring into its caffeinated depths. “I just don’t seem to fit in.”

Ray covered his mouth with his hand, hoping to hide his smirk until he could form a suitably sympathetic expression.

But he needn’t have bothered because Fraser wasn’t looking at him. Fraser was looking anywhere _but_ at Ray, in fact. He was gazing out the diner window at the setting sun; scrying into his coffee; etching icons in the salt Ray had spilled because some goofball before them had thought it funny to loosen the saltshaker cap.

And Ray’s silence must have been construed as compassion because Fraser continued.

“It’s not just here, Ray. It’s been, well, pretty much my whole life.” He gusted a sigh so huge it blurred his salt drawings, which might have been a good thing because re-drawing them gave Fraser something else to look at other than Ray’s face.

Except now Ray’s face did reflect genuine sympathy. And understanding. Boy, could he relate. So he said so. “Boy, Frase. I can sure relate to that.”

At which point Fraser did meet Ray’s gaze, but just for a moment. And Fraser’s eyes shone with disbelief, distrust, pain. And, surprisingly, envy.

“No. See. I…” Ray began. “Is this about something Dewey said? ’Cause you can’t let stuff he says get to you.”

The tip of Fraser’s tongue emerged to meet the tip of his finger, swiping off a few grains of spilled salt. “No, Ray. Nothing like that.” He scratched one eyebrow, leaving a few white specks behind like lopsided dandruff. Ray itched to brush the salt away. Instead he waited as patiently as he could for Fraser to continue.

“What’s it about then, Frase?”

“There’s a person.”

“A person?” Ray stewed on this for another few jittery seconds. “A person you like? Whose attention you’re trying to get?”

“Essentially.”

The cheap metal fork began to twist in Ray’s grip. “Fraser. Stop beating around the shrubbery and just spill.”

Their waitress picked that moment to arrive, fussing with coffee refills and cleaning the salt from the table.

She and Ray flirted amiably, talking about the band she sang with sometimes. At one point, Ray scratched an itch high on his right shoulder, rucking up his short sleeve in the process. Smiling flirtatiously, the waitress trailed one finger up Ray’s exposed bicep.

“Wanna see mine?” She asked, tossing her shaggy pink hair over one shoulder.

“Beg your pardon?” Fraser asked, but Ray just batted his eyelashes and said, “You’ve seen mine. Seems only fair.”

She plunked her tray down on the empty table behind them and pulled off her cardigan to reveal wrist-to-hairline artistry: dancing fairies, menacing gargoyles, and spiralling dragons. She pirouetted 180 degrees and treated them to a giant dragonfly stretching shoulder blade to shoulder blade, its tail disappearing into her vintage bustier.

“Nice!” Ray said. “Damian’s work?”

“You know it.” She said, turning to face them again. She gently traced the outline of Ray’s tattoo once more before tying the cardigan around her waist. “I’ve got a few more I might let you see sometime.” She winked at Ray, retrieved her tray, and returned to the cash where some similarly tattooed and pierced customers milled about.

Ray chuckled and returned his attention to Fraser. “Where were we?”

Fraser stared out the window at the warm summer evening. “You were, apparently, discussing tattoos with our server.” His tone was bland. So bland, in fact, Ray knew something was up.

“Fraser…” Ray’s tone was threatening. “Do not do that. I know where we were. You were just about to tell me something personal and now you’re reflecting the conversation.” He leaned across the table. “There’s a person you like, right?”

Fraser faced Ray again, his eyebrows heading toward each other, a little salt spilling and catching on his thick, dark, girl-lashes. “Yes. Ray. You are correct. There’s a person in whom I’m interested, but unfortunately they seem to find me dull.”

“Fraser, that’s crazy! You’re great. What’s not to like?”

Fraser peered at the now salt-free table. His hands moved searchingly, picking up fork, knife, spoon, laying them back down in precise alignment.

“Actually, I believe the term is ‘goody-two shoes’. This person prefers exciting, interesting people. People with tattoos and fascinating careers and unusual hair colours.”

“Fraser, your career is fascinating. You rid the world of bad guys. Jump off buildings. Lick stuff.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but what about the rest of the time? The time when I’m not at work. Nothing else about me is fascinating,” he said bitterly. “I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, and that, apparently, is the most interesting thing about me, which is why I continually refer to it. I’m so dull that I need to use my father’s murder as a conversational gambit.”

Ray felt suddenly sick, last night’s hangover making a nauseating reappearance. What the hell could he say to something like that? So he said nothing, which Fraser seemed to take as encouragement.

“Why am I like this, Ray? Why am I unable to fit in anywhere I go? I just can’t go on fooling myself that it’s always the other people or the other places that are at fault.”

Fraser didn’t bat an eyebrow when Ray grabbed the saltshaker and dumped a bunch more salt on the table. He just started making grainy images again, drawing both picture and breath before continuing. “The one common denominator anywhere I go is me. It must be me. As you’ve so succinctly pointed out this evening, I don’t fit in.”

Fraser ceased his artistic endeavours and stared at Ray like Ray held all the answers.

“I feel, Ray. I feel as if the entire world were a private club and everyone but me knows the password and the secret handshake.”

Before Ray could formulate a response, rowdy laughter cut across the restaurant. Their waitress was chatting with a group of customers by the cash. All were young, attractive and sporting unlikely shades of blond—except the Asian guy. His hair was blue.

“Do blonds really have more fun, Ray?” Fraser reached across the table. Ray thought he might touch his gel-crunchy spikes, and held still—held his breath even. But Fraser stopped short, peered at his reaching-out hand as if he weren’t sure whose it could be. He let it drop to his lap.

When he raised his head and met Ray’s gaze again, Fraser’s eyes were shiny, like he was running a fever or on drugs or like he was a little kid about to cry.

“C'mon, man. You fit in just fine here, ” Ray insisted.

“The fact that I have, on many occasions been called ‘a freak’ by you, leads me to believe otherwise.” Fraser resumed his salt-art.

“I meant that in the most, um, positive way. Like, you’re a freak of nature because you’re so good at everything.”

Fraser smiled sadly. “I’m afraid you’re not the only person to call me that. Or rather you are, but…” He stabbed at the table top with his finger, causing a tiny salt eruption. “You used to call me that, um, before. When you were... Before you were blond.” He stared at Ray meaningfully.

“Before I was…? Right. Before I was blond. Right. Right.” Ray ran his thumb along one side of his nose, the nose that was so much smaller since he’d become blond.

“It’s not just you, Ray. It’s being called freak by a succession of colleagues. It’s having your partner and best friend abandon you with only a couple of cryptic communications. It’s having your superior commission a psychiatrist to test your sanity and then call the results ‘acceptable’, when she clearly meant ‘barely adequate’. It’s being able to go undercover as a mental patient by acting as your normal self.”

Before Ray could say more than “you went undercover in a cracker factory?” Fraser continued.

“These things are rather telling, don’t you think, Ray?”

Through shiny eyes, Fraser stared at Ray as if he were The God of Cool who could grant popularity with a flick of a cigarette. As if Ray didn’t have a crappy track record himself, with years of alternating between Stella and short, go-nowhere relationships. Not to mention the steady stream of rejections and turndowns that never got as far as the first date.

Ray was lost. He didn’t know what to do to help his friend; didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t good with feelings, Stella’d told him that early and often. So had a series of marriage counsellors. Maybe playing shrink for his friend wasn’t his forte, but he could, at least, cheer him up a bit. Taking a deep breath, Ray opened his mouth to share his words of wisdom, singing boldly:

_“Why am I such a misfit? I am not just a nitwit.  
                You can't fire me I quit. Since I don't fit in.” _

Fraser froze, shock and hurt painted on his glacial features. Then just as Ray opened his mouth to sing the next line in his punk‑y, funky, almost-but-not-quite-on-key style, comprehension melted Fraser’s icy stare and a little hope shone in his glistening eyes. He paused a moment, probably searching for the appropriate childhood memory, then crooned the next lines:

 _“Why am I such a misfit? I am not just a nitwit.  
   _              _Just because my nose glows, why don't I fit in?”_

“Now you’re getting it. Now you’re getting it.” Ray smiled hugely and grabbed Fraser’s wrist, decapitating a salty inukshuk in the process.

Sniffing once and trying on something that Ray’s mother used to call “a brave smile”, Fraser asked, “So you’re saying I’m like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?”

“Well, if the nose fits, wear it. I sure do.” Again he tapped his nose. “You do have that whole bright red, not fitting in, being from the North Pole thing going on.” Ray gestured vaguely northward with the hand not clasping Fraser’s wrist.

Fraser looked achingly raw for a moment, then seemed to gather himself. He sat up straighter, clenched his jaw, visually retreating into Mountie-hood.

Ray missed him already.

“You know, Ray, I've lived in many places in Northern Canada, but none of them could actually be defined as the North Pole, magnetic or otherwise. In fact, it may interest you to know—”

Recognizing deflection when he saw it, Ray interrupted the geographic lecture by the simple expedient of rapping his ring noisily on the table until Fraser ceased speaking.

“Forget the bi-polar thing, Frase. Now the way I see it, you got two choices in life. You can either try to fit in, or you can tell the world to go fuck itself. Me, I picked door number two.” Ray held up a hand to forestall any comments and headed into professorial mode himself, actually assigning homework, “Now I want you to think about what _you_ want and in half an hour, we’re going to talk about this some more.”

“We… I… Why half an hour, Ray?”

“Because that’s how long it takes to get from here to my apartment. No way are we having this kind of conversation in public.”

“All right, Ray. Pitter, patter. Let us get to her.” Fraser said with a brittle cheeriness and far-too-correct articulation.

Ray used his grip on Fraser’s wrist to drag him from their booth. He tossed a crumpled bill on the salty table and herded the depressed Mountie back to his apartment.

#

Ray tossed the keys on his dining table where they clanked loudly against an empty beer bottle. “Sorry about the mess.”

Seating himself on the couch without waiting to be invited, Fraser asked, “Do you have any more, Ray?”

“Sure. Got plenty.” He opened the fridge and grabbed a beer for himself. “Why, Frase? You want one, too?”

“I believe I would, thank you kindly.”

Ray fetched them each a beer. Fraser took his and downed a hearty sip, making a face. Turning the bottle in his hand until the label faced him, he muttered, “American” in such a way that Ray knew the great Budweiser Brewing Company had just been insulted. He bristled a bit on behalf of his favourite beer, yanked the bottle from his guest’s hand and, following a speedy trip back to the fridge, replacing it with a bottle of Moosehead.

Fraser took another long draught and this time pronounced it “better”. He cradled the bottle to his chest, no doubt worried Ray would snatch this one away as well. Instead, Ray plopped himself on the sofa next to his friend, downing his own bottle of Bud in a few long, throaty swallows. The empty was rapidly discarded and Ray dragged the Bud that had initially been Fraser’s within easy reach. He eased back into the cushions, amused by Fraser’s discerning beer comments if, as he claimed, he never drank.

Ray let the head rush of the chug-a-lugged beer entertain him while waiting for Fraser to re-open their earlier discussion. After several minutes, Ray became impatient and asked the important question. “So, Frase. What did you decide? Do you want to try and fit in or tell the world to go to hell?” He stared straight ahead, watching Fraser’s grey-green reflection in the darkened TV screen.

Fraser answered the question with a question, “How did you choose, Ray? On what criteria did you base your decision to tell the world to go to… hell?”

“Uh. You know, I never really gave it a lot of thought. I just went with my gut.” Ray took a swig of beer, surprised at how nervous he felt. Still, if he wanted Fraser to open up, it was a pretty good idea for him to go first. “See, when I was young, I went through stages. There were times when I tried to fit in and times when I said to hell with it. I think most kids go through that, right?”

Fraser nodded, but it looked more like acknowledgement than agreement. Maybe he hadn’t gone through anything like that. It wasn’t as if he’d had a particularly normal childhood, what with the dead mother, absentee father and assault-with-a-deadly-otter.

Ray made a quick beer run to the kitchen. It wasn’t that he was trying to get Fraser drunk, just to lubricate them both enough that the confessions would be less painful to extract. Like oral anaesthetic. And besides, they could always blame the liquor later for things said. Or done. Or forgotten.

“Like with Stella.” Ray continued. “She was all prom queen and cheerleader, then she’d get the urge to show the world she wasn’t like all the other pretty, rich girls so she’d go out and get herself a bad boy. That’s how we first got together. I was into rock and roll and had this leather jacket I’d picked up at Goodwill and I guess I convinced her I was b-b-b-bad to the b-b-b-bone.” If Fraser wondered about the temporary stutter, he kept silent and Ray carried on.

“So she’d be all attracted to me and we’d get together and then she’d try and reform me. And for a while I’d maybe try to fit into her world and once even tried out for the football team. Shoulda seen me. What a joke.” Ray slid a thumbnail under the label on his beer, edging it up in tiny increments.

“But I did make the cross-country running team and I gave up the smoking and came in second at the State track and field meet. My mom still has the trophy. Hardly room to breathe in that Winnebago,” he mused, “But she keeps that damn trophy. Only one I ever got. Well, that and marksmanship at the academy but anyway.” He brought his story back on track even though Fraser seemed content to listen to whatever he had to say. Probably glad to not be talking about himself for the moment.

“But Stella, she’d get bored and toss me over for some frat boy or go looking for another bad boy worse than me. So to win her back, I’d buy a motorcycle, or experiment with drugs, or go and do something really non-preppy and then the cycle would start over. Eventually, we got married and that kind of left me free to sort out who I really was.”

He still ached a little to think the Ray he’d come to be hadn’t been the Ray that belonged with Stella.

“So, I ended up being a sort of good-guy / bad-guy hybrid. You know, choose one from column A and one from column B. I got the tattoo and the bracelet and the car, but no more smoking or recreational pharmaceuticals and, I got the straightest fucking job in the universe. Oh, and the hair.” Ray ran his hand up the back of his head, fussing with his couch-crushed hair.

“When did you start dyeing your hair?” Fraser reached out as he had in the diner, this time fingering Ray’s chemically-enhanced spikes. Ray almost shied away, usually not wanting people to mess his do. This time he consciously leaned into Fraser's touch, a bit disappointed when Fraser drew his hand back, seizing his beer again instead.

Ray watched Fraser deposit another empty on the table next to his own almost-empty beer.

Figuring the time for beer had passed, Ray reached under the couch for the three-quarters-full bottle of Johnny Walker Red that resided there. Placing it on the coffee table, Ray stood slowly, leaning heavily on the back of the couch, amazed at how woozy he already felt after only three beers. Must be a hangover from the hangover, he decided, shoving off a bit unsteadily. Or that titty willow stuff Fraser had given him, insisting it was a sure cure for a hangover. He returned with two mismatched but relatively clean glasses.

“Neat?” Ray asked.

“Yes, it was an interesting story,” Fraser responded. “Oh, the scotch. Um. Yes, please.” He sounded unsure so Ray made a return trip to the kitchen for ice.

Another thought peeled itself from the layers of Ray’s mind as he measured three fingers into each glass by eye and unsteady hand. “Oh, and you know what is pretty neat about my brand of style?” He didn’t wait for Fraser’s acknowledgement. “That my brand of not fitting in actually makes me fit in just about anywhere… especially undercover.”

Police work always grabbed the Mountie’s attention and he sat up and took notice, a little blearier than normal, but still mostly focussed and intent. “How so, Ray?” Fraser took a sip of scotch without appearing to think about it. He coughed once, his attention never leaving Ray.

“Because criminals are usually not fitting-in types themselves, so I can fit in with anybody. Wear a suit and tie and comb my hair flat or rip the sleeves out of a Headstones T-shirt and rock on with the worst punks out there. Hell,” he laughed, “I’m an over-dressed, loud-mouth Italian cop even as we speak.”

Fraser chuckled, then clapped his mouth shut, looking guilty, as if he’d been unfaithful to his dearly-departed buddy. He took another sip of the scotch, saying, “You’re very good at undercover. In addition to the mental institution I mentioned earlier, I also assumed the persona of a used car salesman once, but I wasn’t very good at it, I’m afraid.” Fraser swayed a bit, even though seated.

“Didn’t catch the bad guys, huh?”

“Oh, we got the malf-malfeasants all right.” Fraser slurred. “But I failed to sell any cars.”

Ray laughed at this and downed the last few sips in his glass, the ice clinking uncomfortably against his front teeth. He thought about pouring himself another, but decided against it. “Well, I’m not sure I should be all that proud of how well I fit in undercover. Not all my assignments worked out. Sometimes I got found out or we didn’t get to make any arrests. But I can say I’ve covered a lot of bases. I’ve been a drug dealer, a hit man, a bouncer at a gay bar.” He stopped to think, ticking them off as he went. “I’ve been a bike courier, a personal trainer, a mechanic, a professor, and a creative writing student.” They both chuckled at that. Enough liquor had been consumed that a lot of things seemed pretty funny now.

“I was even a hairdresser for a while. Did a crash-course at beauty school and everything. Hence, the extremely well-styled experimental hair.” Ray pointed at his head like it was exhibit A.

Chuckling, Fraser downed the last of his scotch, refusing any more. Closing his eyes, he sank further into the cushions, head resting on the soft couch-back. He appeared deep in thought. Or maybe he was passing out.

Either way, Ray took advantage of the opportunity to take a leak.

When Ray opened the bathroom door again, Fraser was standing there, braced against the doorframe, just sort of hovering. He loomed over Ray even though they were almost the same height; his broader form virtually filled the tiny hallway.

Then Fraser moved, crowding Ray backwards the two or three steps it took to pin him up against the bathroom sink. He leaned into Ray’s space, breathing boozy fumes in his face. “There are things about me I’d like to change, Ray. Things that you do, that you have, that I’d like to, too.” Fraser swayed a bit. Ray grabbed his waist to steady him.

“Like what?” Ray asked. “What part of me do you want for yourself?”

“The ‘one from column A and one from column B’… uh, thing.” Fraser leaned further forward, forcing Ray to let go of him and brace himself with both hands on the sink behind him.

Ray was sweating even though the bathroom wasn’t any warmer than the living room had been.

Fraser reached out, stroking a finger along the upper curve of Ray’s belt buckle. He repeated this gesture a few times, then suddenly yanked the buckle outward, drawing the little metallic finger from its leather hole. He followed that with a twist of denim that left the top button of Ray’s 501s gaping. Ray gasped as Fraser used both hands to ease Ray’s shirt out of his loosened waistband. Interspersing quick and slow motions, Fraser yanked Ray’s shirt over his head, only the slightest fumbling indicating either inebriation or inexperience. Maybe both.

He peeled the shirt from Ray’s shoulders, dragging it downward until it hit elbow, where he left it. Ray felt slightly restrained and shuddered at the thought of it. Fraser moved back an inch or two, staring at Ray like Dief at raw meat.

“Breathing kinda hard, there, Frase?” Ray grinned, posturing bravely although nervous as hell. His grin turned to slack-jawed shock when Fraser grasped him by the upper arms, moved slightly to one side and licked, _licked,_ Ray’s right bicep.

“What’s it like?” Fraser breathed. “Is it painful?”

Ray could barely catch his breath. It was as if Fraser had confiscated all the air in the tiny bathroom. Panting hard, he answered, “Yeah, at first. There’s some bleeding, but it’s a high, as well.” He turned his head to meet Fraser’s eyes, which were dark and dilated and very, very close. “I was bouncing off walls for hours afterwards.”

“You liked it?”

“Yeah. A lot. I’m thinking of getting another.”

“I’ll get one, too.” Fraser licked Ray’s tat again. _“Maintiens Le Droit”._ Fraser moved his hands up to run through Ray’s hair and suddenly Ray didn’t care whether “Man-tan the drought” meant death to all Americans.

Then Fraser sniffed him, sniffed his hair to be exact, and Ray gripped the sink behind him even more tightly; he might very well be leaving fingerprints in the enamel. But he kept his hands off, wanting to be very sure. Wanting Fraser to be very sure.

But when Fraser said, “Do me, Ray.” Ray was very nearly undone.

“Do you have supplies?” Fraser whispered. “Or do we need to go to the drugstore?”

It was just like Fraser to be practical. Ray did a rapid mental inventory of his nightstand drawer. “I’ve got everything we need, Fraser. Are you sure?” His heart beat a manic tattoo in his chest.

Fraser was still toying with his hair, one hand resting on the windowsill for balance as he stretched up above Ray. “Blond. I want to be blond, Ray. It’s the key to everything, isn’t it?”

Shocked speechless, Ray pushed at Fraser, managing to shift him a few inches away. He felt sick. He felt dizzy. He yanked his shirt off his arms, ripping it in the process. “Fuck it!” He snarled, tossing the damaged thing in the bathtub. He slammed down the toilet lid, ordering, “Sit. Shirt off.”

Fraser jerked his own shirt off in one clumsy but less destructive tug and sat as ordered. Ray stared at him, hiding his confusion behind the business of dyeing. He was grateful for years of undercover work where he’d learned to school his features, mask his feelings.

He took a step left, then right, muttering and nodding. Grasping Fraser’s chin, he shifted his head side-to-side, maybe a bit rougher than necessary. He pushed the curl back from Fraser’s forehead and fingered the dark brown waves like the experienced professional he’d once impersonated. “It’s a two-step process. It’ll stink but it won’t hurt. It’s not good for the hair but since you keep it short, it won’t be a problem.”

Fraser nodded, causing the thick strands to pull from Ray’s fingers.

“First we’ll have to strip out the natural colour. Then, we’ll put the blond colouring in. You sure you want to stop at blond, Fraser? ’Cause I got stuff that’ll turn you purple or blue or hot pink.” Well, he didn’t, really, but lots of stores carried weird hair colourings nowadays. It wouldn’t be hard to come by.

“Blond’s fine, Ray. It’s a large change for me and I’m not sure pink is regulation.” Fraser was starting to look both sober and skittish. “Plus it would clash with the dress uniform terribly.”

“How ’bout serge-red, then? Or Stetson-tan? That’ll go with both uniforms. Or how ‘bout a contrasting colour? Toronto-Maple-Leafs-blue is pretty. Better than this shit-brown.” Ray was getting angry, really mad at this nonsense; tease me, tat me, dye me. What was this shit?

Ray stalked out of the room before he could say something he’d truly regret; or maybe sock Fraser one in the jaw.

Reaching his bedroom, he yanked a plastic storage bin out from under his messy, unmade bed, tossing the lid across the room so hard it cracked against the wall. He did a quick inventory: partially used bottle of stripper, three new containers of blond dye, salon quality—none of the drug store stuff for him. One was his current dark shade, one platinum he’d bought on a whim, and one strawberry blond he’d never had the nerve to try. He pulled each one out of the bin cradling them in his arms.

“Ray.”

Fraser stood by the door, still sans shirt.

“Ray?”

“What, Fraser? You wanna be blond or you don’t?”

“I didn’t mean to make you angry.” He paused a moment, then said, “I didn’t mean to pee you off.”

Ray sighed, “That’s piss you off, Fraser. Piss you off. You speak two dialects of Chinese. Why can’t you learn American?”

“I didn’t want to _piss_ you off. I just wanted to, uh, to find my inner bad boy, Ray. To be a little more like you.”

“Why do you want to be like me? I’m nobody to copy. People should try to be more like you. Why me?”

“So you’d notice me. So you’d like me.”

“Notice… Like…” Ray clutched the hair dye boxes tighter, the corners digging into his chest and arms. “I do like you Fraser. I like you so much that I have to pretend I don’t, or else—”

“Or else what?”

“Or else I’ll, I’ll, I’ll…” Penny, pound. Sheep, lamb. The jig really was up and there was only one thing to do about it. He dumped the boxes in the bin and kicked it, lidless, back under the bed. Almost without moving he was in front of Fraser, crowding into his space the way Fraser had herded him into the bathroom earlier. Ray could be as intimidating as hell when he wanted to be and it no longer mattered that Fraser was a touch taller or twenty pounds heavier.

He grasped Fraser’s shoulders and drew him across the last inches that separated them. He moved slowly, giving Fraser one last chance to get a clue and either fight or flee.

When Fraser did neither, Ray said fuck it and went for it. He slid his arms around Fraser’s back, bringing his lips down squarely, warmly, wetly over Fraser’s. There was no room for misunderstanding between them. In fact, there was no room for anything between them as Fraser wrapped his own arms around Ray and pulled him in tight.

And shirtless necking in the doorway was good. It was good for a mighty long time and Ray had no intention of moving. Ever. His lips were swollen and sensitive. Fraser was sucking and nipping and kissing and pressing and caressing and if this was relative inexperience, Ray thought he’d die if Fraser ever got really, really good. In the meantime the prospect of lots and lots of practice left him weak and hard and maybe they could kick this up a notch.

Ray pulled away to catch his breath, head spinning from drink and hyperventilation and being horny as hell. He ran both hands down Fraser’s bare chest, thumbs meeting over his solar plexus, stroking solidly outwards in matching arcs. Fraser was warm and real and not so incredibly fit as to make Ray self-conscious. But beautiful. A truly beautiful man with a nice body and a kind and gentle soul. Ray couldn’t believe Fraser ever felt left out. If he only knew how others saw him. But then, who did? Who ever could? And the most important question of all was why the hell was he thinking philosophical shit when he could be making out with the object of his desire?

He met Fraser’s eyes and smiled. Fraser smiled back a little unsurely.

“Hey, Frase. Guess what?”

Fraser lifted one eyebrow.

“You got my attention.”

And suddenly the talking was over and they came together again all heat and fire. As one, they staggered to the bed, yanking blankets and sheets and jeans and briefs out of the way.

Ray didn’t ask if Fraser had been with a guy before and Fraser didn’t volunteer. Fraser may have assumed Ray was experienced but didn’t ask either. When they spoke at all, it was in passionate word-pairs: Oh, yeah. Let me. That’s good. Right there. Declarations of love in multiple languages would come later, for now “love you” would suffice.

Ray spent a long time exploring Fraser’s body, showing him how, showing he cared. If Fraser hadn’t done this before then the pupil quickly exceeded the master and it became very clear just how much Fraser liked to put things in his mouth. Ray’s climax may have disturbed the neighbours. It certainly messed the sheets.

Fraser lasted a little longer, but when he came, he pretty much turned inside out. This was no simple biological function for Fraser. He rode his orgasm like an emotional tilt-a-whirl, left buffeted and tearful with joy and fear and relief.

The sheets had become a veritable swamp.

Together, they shoved the messy bedding to the floor and cuddled up on the bare mattress, holding each other.

Round two was even more glorious, especially when Fraser decided to swallow, thereby leaving the mattress in sleep-able condition. Ray followed his lead, recognizing a really good idea when he felt one.

#

Somewhere in the darkest hour, Ray surfaced enough to ask, “Still want to go blond, Ben? ’Cause we can do that tomorrow if you want.” They had the next day off and Ray was willing to go all the way to the bathroom, although no further from the bedroom than that. Okay, maybe as far as the kitchen and, depending on which teams were playing, maybe the living room. But that was definitely it. Sandor could bring pizza by three times a day as far as Ray was concerned.

“I'm not sure.” Fraser replied muzzily. “I managed to get your attention without going to such…” He yawned hugely. “Extremes.”

“Why’d you think that going blond would get my attention, anyway?”

Ray could dimly see the outline of Fraser’s hand as he counted off the reasons for that particular supposition. “Stella was blonde. So was Luanne Russell. Even my half-sister, Maggie McKenzie. She gets it from her mother’s side, of course. Need I go on?”

“So you’re saying I got a type? But those are all women. What if I got a different type for men? Ever think of that? No, you did not.” Ray yanked the comforter a little higher.

“Actually, I was working on the assumption that there might be a touch of narcissism in your romantic interests.”

“Narcissism? Isn’t that where you fall asleep in the middle of stuff?”

“No, Ray, that’s narcolepsy. Narcissism is love of oneself.”

“You mean like…?” Ray made highly illustrative hand gestures, knowing Fraser had excellent night vision.

“No, Ray, that’s… you do this on purpose, right? Why? Does it help you fit in?

“Nah. Just amuses me.” Ray figured now was the time to let Fraser in on the big secret. “I got this kind of Columbo thing I do. People let down their guard. It might surprise you to know that I’m not as dumb as I look.”

“Well, I hardly think there’s much danger of that, Ray.”

“Ah, sarcasm becomes you, Frase.”

“Thank you kindly, Ray.”

“So this.” Fraser gestured from his chest to Ray’s and back. “What we have going between us now. Is this going to help me fit in?”

“Seems to fit all right to me.” Ray snuggled up against Fraser. “In fact, we fit just fine.”

#

“What, exactly, is going on here, Constable? This is obviously the influence of that… that… American.” Inspector Thatcher, having completed her circumnavigation of her subordinate, stood blocking the doorway to Fraser’s office, thereby cutting off any possible escape.

Fraser stood as close to attention as he could while clutching an overfilled cardboard carton to his chest, careful not to get dirt on his sleeveless tee-shirt, or “wife-beater”, as his partner would say.

“Actually, sir. It was entirely my idea. I thought it was time to make some changes in my life.”

“So, you opt for this… this…? I’m not sure it’s even regulation!” Although she seemed angry, she stepped into his space and ran her well-manicured index finger slowly over his brand-new tattoo. In blacks and golds, his right bicep now featured an excellent rendering of the Canadian one-dollar coin.

“A loonie. How appropriate,” she pronounced, stroking the still-sensitive skin.

“If I may, sir?” At her nod, he set the carton back on his desk and reached for his well-thumbed copy of the RCMP regulations manual. Clearing his throat, he read, “When a member of the RCMP—”

“And, now, moving out…” She cut him off. “We’ll have to install alarms. Lock up the good silver.” She sighed, the mantle of leadership apparently resting heavily on her shoulders.

“Actually, sir, due to fortuitous circumstances, Constable Turnbull returned home only last night to find that the City’s sanitation engineers had accidentally confiscated his cardboard box. With winter only a few months away, I’ve convinced him to move into the storage closet off the Consulate’s kitchen. I think he’ll find it quite homey.”

If Fraser had overheard Ray asking Frannie to call the City, he’d never mention it. Eavesdropping was unforgivable, if unavoidable with his excellent hearing.

“Turnbull’s fixing it up to his liking, even as we speak. My old cot doesn’t quite fit so he’ll have to sleep at a sixty-five degree angle, but still, as they say, a change is as good as a rest.” Fraser ran a hand over his hair, the “ash splash” streaks he’d finally settled on feeling stiff compared to his natural brown.

Thatcher took in Fraser’s duo-tone hair and rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Constable. That is… acceptable.”

Lowering his hand, Fraser poked at the tender tattoo still unable to believe he’d done it. Good thing Thatcher couldn’t see the other one—the one from the matched set he and Ray now sported.

“Thank you, sir. I’ve left the appropriate change of address forms for both Constable Turnbull and myself on your desk for approval and signature. Now, seeing as this _is_ my day off…” He hefted his cardboard box again, hoping she’d take the hint.

“Dismissed, Constable Fraser.” She turned on one spike heel and clicked across the hardwood back to her office. Only his bat-like hearing allowed him to hear her mumble, “Nice to see he’s finally starting to fit in around here.”

_End_

 


End file.
